Mycroft and the Cat
by Deathtoaster
Summary: Mycroft isn't having a good birthday, Sherlock gets bullied by Mrs Hudson, and John is unsympathetic. Flames will be used to toast marshmallows.
1. Mycroft has a birthday

**A.N. Hello! Blame andbreathe for the idea, its all her fault.**

**Disclaimer: I made up Mrs Perkins, but I don't own sherlock. :-(**

Mycroft sat alone in his office, glaring at the object on his desk. It was a present, fairly large, squashy, and neatly wrapped in blue and green paper. It had a cheerful bow on top, and a label which read "Dear Mikey. Happy birthday! Love from Mummy and Daddy." in neat handwriting. It stood out like a walrus at a pet shop in the darkened room. Mycroft almost wished he had the walrus in his study.

'The only people who remember my birthday are my parents, who can't even bring themselves to use my name.' he thought bitterly, and sighed. Then Mycroft reached for the gift, even though he was certain of what it contained.

His fears were prove right as he unwrapped the garish paper to reveal a jumper, that had been knitted in a sympony of yellows and browns. Mycroft picked up the handknitted monstrosity and, holding it at arms length, he deposited it in a covered wicker basket that was hidden away behind the heavy curtain. The jumper landed in the basket, on top of at least twenty years worth of handknitted jumpers in varying horrible colours.

Mycroft sat back down in his chair, and sighed again.

His secretary, Mrs Perkins, knocked on the door, and then walked in.

"Good morning, Mr Holmes. I have your post ready for you, and there are some documents to be looked over fairly urgently." She wondered whether to wish him a happy birthday, but then remembered the last time she tried that.

_ "Happy birthday, Mr Holmes."_

_ "How is it happy?"_

She couldn't remember the other times, but she had wished him happy birthday for eleven years now, it was traditional.

"Happy birthday, Mr Holmes." She waited.

"Go away, Mrs Perkins."

'That was a new one.' she thought.

* * *

"Sherlock, you need to get Mycroft a birthday present." said John.

"Why?" asked the consulting detective, turning his back on John and going to the window.

"Sherlock, we've been having this argument for forty minutes! You're his brother, its his birthday, and that is final!" replied John. "Besides," he added, "didn't he get you something?" Part of his mind noted that sometimes, talking to Sherlock was like talking to a small child.

"He got me a book called 'How to be a super sleuth'!" said Sherlock angrily.

"And?" John was unsympathetic, as usual.

"It was for eight year olds!"

'Too old for you then.' John thought.

"I'm not getting him a present!"

"Yes, you are."

"Boys!" Mrs Hudson joined the conversation. "What are you shouting about?"

Sherlock and John froze, then said simultaneously:

"John wants me to get Mycroft a present."

"Sherlock won't get Mycroft a birthday present."

Mrs Hudson swept into action. "Sherlock Holmes!" she grabbed his arm. "You are going to come with me, and we are going to get Mycroft a birthday present." She pulled him towards the door. Sherlock shot a pleading look at John, who shook his head, and made a shooing motion with his hand. Sherlock scowled in Johns general direction, but it wasn't very impressive, as he immediately had to turn his head to avoid falling down the stairs.

John went to the window, and had to grin at the sight of the consulting detective being physically dragged towards a cab by a woman with a bad hip.

* * *

The cab pulled up at a long, one storey, grey building on the outskirts of London. There was a black and white cat sat in one of the windows that was giving them a bored stare. When they stepped out of the cab, the faint sound of meowing filled their ears. The sign on the door said Elm Tree Cat Sanctuary.

"You're going to get Mycroft a cat. _Mycroft._" said Sherlock, looking slightly shocked.

"No, Sherlock, don't be silly. He's your brother, you're going to get Mycroft a cat."

Pause.

"Why a cat?"

"He always seems so lonely, I thought a cat would be good company."

* * *

At the desk, there was a young woman, who looked slightly stunned at seeing Sherlock Holmes in a cat sanctuary.

"We'd like to adopt a cat please." Mrs Hudson took charge. The woman's eyes snapped from Sherlock to Mrs Hudson, and she said, "Oh, um, yes, of course, um, this way." Sherlock groaned inaudibly from behind Mrs Hudson. They followed the volunteer through a pair of double doors and into an enourmous room full of cats.

There were at least seventy cats in the room, and every single one of them were staring, or glaring at the three humans who had just entered the room. The volunteer said "I'll, um, let you, um, get to know each other." and fled from the room. Mrs Hudson started looking around. Sherlock glared right back at the multitudes of felines.

Mrs Hudson was occupied in talking to a purring ginger tabby with a white tipped tail and a red collar, so Sherlock looked around. Most of the cats had stopped glaring at him and resumed doing whatever it was cats do, but one of them was still glaring at Sherlock disdainfully. It was black, and fluffy, and its menacing yellow eyes followed his every move.

"Mrs Hudson, that cat is glaring at me." She looked at the cat he indicated, and smiled.

"Sherlock, it's the perfect cat for Mycroft!" His protests were drowned out by her calling the volunteer back into the room.

"We've picked one. Could we take that black fluffy one over there?" The cat was picked up and enticed into a carrier, and the relevant forms were filled in.

"His name is Octavian, and he may seem antisocial, but he's a lovely boy really." said the woman. "He hates children though, so keep them away from him."

"Oh, don't worry, the person we're getting him for hates chidren too." Mrs Hudson reassured the volunteer. "Sherlock, would you take him to Mycroft please?"

* * *

Mycroft was still alone in his silent office. But suddenly, from outside the door, there some unusual sounds could be heard. Some muffled cursing, and a feral, animalistic hiss.

Then the door burst open, and Sherlock appeared, red in the face, panting, and carrying a box. Which was wrapped, if slightly haphazardly, and had a bow stuck to the top. 'What is it with people and bows?' Mycroft thought.

Sherlock managed to stagger to the desk and drop the present in front of his bemused brother. Mycroft noticed that the wrapping had a hole punched in the top, through which a yellow eye could be seen glaring at Sherlock.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" said Mycroft. "I do hope it's nothing illegal, Mummy wouldn't like it."

"Don't worry, _brother dear_, I brought you a birthday present." Sherlock's smile was making Mycroft more worried.

Mycroft unwrapped it carefully, to see the blackest, fluffiest cat he'd ever seen glaring at his brother. Sherlock made a slightly disturbing happy face, and said, in a womans voice: "His name is Octavian, and he may seem antisocial, but he's a lovely boy really!"

"Don't be obnoxious, Sherlock." said Mycroft dryly.

"Did Mummy make you a jumper?" asked Sherlock.

Mycroft sighed. "Yes, yellow and brown this time, I put it with my collection."

As he turned and walked out of the door, Sherlock smirked. "Happy birthday, _brother dear_."

* * *

Mrs Perkins knocked on the door of Mycroft's study. "Come in!" called Mycroft.

He was leaning over his desk, writing something. He looked up and saw her.

"Ah, hello Mrs Perkins. What can I do for you?" Mycroft absentmindedly reached over and stroked a cat she hadn't seen before. As she watched, it turned its head and glared at her with large, hostile, yellow eyes.

"Mrs Perkins?"

"Um..."


	2. Scrambled eggs

**A.N. This was written for andbreathe, so as usual, it's all her fault. Thank you all who reviewed, followed, or favourited. It was very awesome, reading them. They made me grin like a moron (which I am).**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. Now leave me alone so I can cry about it.**

Mycroft was sat on his desk chair, thinking hard. Octavian had jumped up onto his lap, and was now sat, in a dignified manner, if a fluffy black cat can be dignified. Mycroft wanted to get Sherlock back for Octavian. Sherlock had wanted the cat to be irritating, a hindrance when Mycroft was working. It hadn't worked out like that, but Sherlock had tried to make Mycroft's birthday, which was usually a bad day, even worse. So Mycroft sat behind his desk, plotting for his brother's birthday.

Of course, he didn't want to be too evil. He was the reasonable Holmes brother. He was the clever one. He would not risk looking heartless just to irritate his younger brother. He wasn't that type of person.

"Sir, your breakfast has arrived. Shall I have them bring it in?" Mrs Perkins voice startled Mycroft out of his thoughts. He looked up at his secretary, and replied "Yes, thank you, Mrs Perkins. That would be good."

She made a discreet hand gesture to somebody who, Mycroft presumed, had breakfast. A young man with a tray walked in. He was wearing a name tag reading Mr Charles Laddock, and he staring at the floor as if it was the most interesting thing he'd ever seen. Ah, Mycroft thought. Obviously a new person, probably quite low in the proverbial ranks. This should be interesting.

Mr Laddock was almost at his destination of Mycroft's desk, and risked a glance upwards. And then, for the first time, he clapped eyes on what appeared to be the angriest cat of all time.

And it was glaring right at him.

He stumbled, attempting valiantly to stay upright. He nearly managed it too. But when he was almost upright, a feral growl distracted him.

He stumbled and fell, precipitating a large plateful of scrambled eggs and toast directly onto Mycroft Holmes, and Mycroft Holmes' demon cat. His instinct was to exit, running preferably, but his body was still falling. The attempted fleeing only made his body move faster, so when his head collided with the hard wood of Mycroft's desk, he was knocked unconsious immediately.

Mycroft and Mrs Perkins were frozen in place. Octavian meowed grumpily, and jumped off Mycroft's lap. The cat's movement unfroze the room, and Mycroft stood up.

Unsurprisingly, he wasn't as impressive a figure when covered with scrambled eggs. There was egg all over his torso, face and hair. He also had a piece of toast lodged in his blazer pocket, like a strange, bread-y hankerchief.

Not very impressive at all.

Walking round his desk, Mycroft walked over to the prone figure on the floor and nudged him with a previously spotless shoe. No reaction.

Octavian jumped neatly onto the desk, and began to eat the scrambled eggs that were scattered over it's no-longer-pristine surface.

Mrs Perkins caught Mycroft's eye, and started to laugh uncontrollably. Mycroft stared at her, bemused. Then he suddenly saw the funny side, and began to laugh.

And that was when Sherlock walked in. And obviously, the scene must have looked odd.

Mycroft, covered in scrambled eggs, standing over a body, laughing his head off, accompanied by a hysterical secretary, and a fluffy, black-with-lumps-of-scrambled-egg cat.

Sherlock did the first thing that came to mind.

He took out his phone, and he took a picture.

Then he sent the photo to everybody on his contact list. John, Mummy, Father, Lestrade, and several others, including everybody whose phones he had hacked into. Half of the people in London had just been sent a photo of "The Government" in a scene so ridiculous it looked like it had been faked.

Octavian chose this moment to walk over, and scratch Sherlock's leg. "Ow!" Sherlock yelped, and dropped his phone. Which turned out to be a bad move. Octavian promptly urinated on it, then sat down and looked at Sherlock. He looked smug.

Mycroft found himself appreciating just how clever his cat really was.

"Did you want something Sherlock?" said Mycroft coolly.

"What?" Sherlock was confused.

"I assume there was a purpose to your visit. You were never one for family bonding."

"Never mind." Sherlock turned and limped out. Mycroft and Mrs Perkins started laughing again, but Mycroft stopped short when he remembered that he was covered in scrambled egg. And his mood plummeted further when he realised that half of London knew it.

Mrs Perkins looked worried. "Sir? Are you okay?" He became aware that he had been staring at her for several minutes.

"Yes, yes. I'm fine. I will be leaving shortly. Send a cleaning crew up here please. Send a medical team also. Mr Laddock will need it. Thank you." He waved his hand vaguely.

But before leaving, he walked through to a private room, and opened a wardrobe. Inside, there was a row of identical suits. Mycroft brushed the congealing egg out of his hair and changed his suit and shoes. There were some things that one just didn't do, and walking through this building whilst covered in scrambled eggs was one of those.

"The driver is ready for you when you wish to leave, sir." Mrs Perkins voice snapped him out of his thoughts.

"Thank you, Mrs Perkins." Mycroft inclined his head to her, and walked out, his polished shoes stepping neatly around the scattered scrambled egg and the unconscious body of Charles Laddock.

When he was seated inside one of the black cars, he had a thought. It made him smile a slightly malicious smile. It also made the driver look concerned. Mycroft Holmes was known for many things, but smiling for no apparent reason was not one of them.

_Who cares about reasonable?_ Thought Mycroft. _Who cares about "Not too evil"? Revenge will be sweet indeed._


End file.
